Night fell deep, and a desolate wind swept by.
“I’m not a crybaby,” Meng Xinghui said, his eyes glistening with tears.
Six hundred yuan is looking down on people, he thought. He wasn’t a crybaby; he just had overactive tear ducts. He had lost count of how many times he’d cried since his parents passed away. Because no one cared, Meng Xinghui did his best to curl up in the gap of the seat, trying to find even a sliver of warmth.
Shen Qiu’s figure before him was blurred, yet his silhouette was exceptionally reassuring.
Shen Qiu asked, “You can tell me.”
If it had been anyone else, they would have sought a backer for support long ago. Shen Qiu had never seen someone who, after being wronged, still refused to ask their backer for help, only to end up running errands for others for nothing in return.
“Because I don’t want to disappoint you, I can’t trouble you anymore.” The final words trailed off, tinged with grievance and vulnerability, his small voice sounding as if it were emerging from deep mud.
If the car hadn’t been so silent, Shen Qiu might not have heard him.
Meng Xinghui longed for Shen Qiu’s attention. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed it himself, but at some point, Shen Qiu’s presence in his heart had grown heavier.
Even if this strange relationship between them was fleeting, and in the near future, they would become strangers who had once met.
Neon lights flashed by on the street. Shen Qiu’s expression was unreadable, his eyelashes fluttering slightly, his lips parted as if he were about to speak, yet the words remained unspoken.
He had never expected this to be the reason. He wanted to say, Meng Xinghui, you never needed to care about what he thinks.
The car was silent, filled only by the sound of two heartbeats—one fast, one slow.
One beat low in the dust.
The other quickened, no longer calm because of the first.
Shen Qiu opened the back door. Meng Xinghui was curled up in the seat, tears still clinging to the corners of his eyes. Shen Qiu leaned in and lifted him into his arms; the man in his embrace breathed softly and steadily.
When they reached the door to Meng Xinghui’s room, Shen Qiu realized he didn’t have a spare key. He had no choice but to lay him on his own bed, remove his coat, shoes, and socks, and cover him with a blanket.
Meng Xinghui naturally rolled over, curling up on one side and leaving Shen Qiu with the sight of the back of his fluffy head.
The bathroom glass was fogged over, the sound of rushing water muffled behind the closed door.
Shen Qiu tilted his head back, letting the shower spray soak him. His white shirt, now drenched, clung to his upper body, revealing the faint contours of his abs and chest. He tore open the buttons of the austere white shirt, water droplets clinging to his rippling abdomen. Below, he still wore his suit trousers.
A sapphire cufflink lay in the sink.
The other half of the bed was empty, the mattress dipping where the two of them were separated by a pillow, serving as a dividing line.
Meng Xinghui opened his eyes to find himself on a snowy mountain, surrounded by icebergs and glaciers. A massive iceberg, severed by a fault line, collapsed the next second, sending a wave of white snow crashing toward him.
The bone-chilling wind threatened to freeze him into a cold. His nose turned red, his hands rubbed together, and his entire body shivered uncontrollably. His feet were numb and devoid of sensation. He frantically searched for a warm place, pushing through countless obstacles.
An ice cave appeared before him. He entered and touched the wall—it was scaldingly warm. Joy filled Meng Xinghui’s eyes as he happily settled into a comfortable sleeping position, finding a soft spot to rest. He buried his cheek in the warmth, his expression one of pure contentment, his earlobes flushing red from the heat.
The next day, dawn broke.
On the bed, Meng Xinghui lay sprawled, his limbs open wide. His eyes were still bleary as he rubbed them, his biological clock jolting his groggy brain awake. An English-style table lamp now stood on the nightstand beside him, and a sudden, distinct scent filled his nostrils—the smell of old books and ink.
His eyelashes fluttered up in disbelief, his almond-shaped eyes wide with panic. How did he end up in Shen Qiu’s room?
Yesterday, Shen Qiu had appeared at the office and even helped him print documents. Then, he had been too exhausted… He had a vague memory of a conversation in the car. They—
His earlobes instantly burned. In his panic, he scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the pillow on the floor. As he regained his composure, he folded the duvet, his sharp eyes catching even the slightest wrinkle.
He smoothed it out meticulously, then aligned the two pillows side by side.
Then he fled, dashing back to his own room and throwing himself onto the bed, rolling around in despair.
“Meng Xinghui, what are you doing? How could you have fallen asleep?”
The duvet became a tangled mess.
Downstairs, Shen Qiu listened to the commotion from above. It seemed the man had finally realized he had been in his room.
When he had woken up, Meng Xinghui was lying obediently in his arms. His eyelashes were long and curled, and though his slender frame had a bit more substance to it, his waist was still so thin it could be encircled by a single arm.
Shen Qiu pinched Meng Xinghui’s nose. “I never would have guessed you’d be such a restless sleeper.”
On the large bed, Meng Xinghui had taken up a full three-quarters of the space—his legs were sprawled on one side, while his body remained tucked into Shen Qiu’s embrace.
Meng Xinghui’s breath hitched in tension as he swatted the hand away from his nose.
Shen Qiu unhurriedly brought out the breakfast tray, estimating that enough time had passed.
He called him to come down, his lips brushing against the phone’s mouthpiece. “Don’t suffocate yourself in there. Come down and eat; we still have to get to work.”
Meng Xinghui, who had been stewing in regret under his pitch-black duvet, bolted out of bed the moment he answered the phone.
A glance at the time revealed he was about to be late. Shaking off his shame, he scrambled to the wardrobe, grabbed the first piece of clothing he could find, threw it on, and dashed downstairs.
Shen Qiu witnessed the entire frantic descent. “Let’s eat.”
He was dressed in a deep blue suit, the collar adorned with wave-patterned Suzhou embroidery. A gentlemanly Windsor knot tied his tie, and his trousers were pressed so sharply they showed no single crease, their fabric shimmering naturally in the light.
A variety of breakfast dishes were spread across the table. Meng Xinghui flopped into a chair and began eating ravenously, stuffing a steamed bun into his mouth and gulping down soy milk so quickly he choked, a harsh sound rasping from deep in his throat.
Shen Qiu held his cup. “Slow down.”
“I can’t! I’m going to be late. I still need to clock in!” Meng Xinghui wasn’t just rushing himself; he also urged Shen Qiu—who was heading to the office for the first time—to hurry up. He noticed the coffee in Shen Qiu’s cup hadn’t decreased in the slightest.
“Shen Qiu, hurry up and eat!” Meng Xinghui urged, too frantic to even realize how absurd his behavior was.
“If you don’t eat now, we’re going to be late. It still takes over ten minutes to get to the office,” Meng Xinghui said, like a minor official rushing to court. Shen Qiu, meanwhile, was as steady as an iceberg—the emperor himself. The minor official feared being late; the emperor was completely unconcerned.
No one could understand the minor official’s sorrow.
Shen Qiu’s eyelashes fluttered slightly, and a barely perceptible ripple stirred in his calm eyes. Urge him? Meng Xinghui dared to urge him.
Unconsciously, Shen Qiu quickened his pace in eating breakfast.
As he settled into the driver’s seat, Shen Qiu snapped back to his senses. Damn it, why did I listen to Meng Xinghui?
The feeling of fullness in his stomach served as a constant reminder that this was no illusion, but a tangible reality.
The sound of the passenger door opening echoed in his ears, and he pressed the accelerator harder than usual.
The BMW’s engine had barely stopped when Meng Xinghui flung open the door and rushed out, his eyes fixed solely on the clock-in machine.
Shen Qiu followed at a leisurely pace.
Qingxiang was located in the Cultural District, occupying the seventh to tenth floors of a building that housed many film and television companies. During the workweek, the elevators were heavily congested during the morning and evening commutes.
Meng Xinghui squeezed into the nearly overloaded elevator, wedging himself against the doorframe and leaving Boss Shen behind.
His eyes were filled with the reluctance of someone who had just clocked in late and was facing a pay cut.
Boss Shen raised an eyebrow. Oh, really?
Drenched in sweat, Meng Xinghui clocked in with a forced smile. He immediately turned to set up the conference room—brewing tea, preparing water, and calling those who hadn’t arrived yet.
He then distributed yesterday’s documents to the staff, moving from one department to another until his phone’s step counter had already surpassed ten thousand.
Someone from the Film and Television Department walked up to him. “Xinghui, thanks for your hard work. Go order from the milk tea shop downstairs.”
“Um, Brother, what about the money?”
“Oh, come on. Just pay for it yourself and get reimbursed by Finance later.”
Meng Xinghui pinched the seam of his pants. But— I need my money to pay off debts. And I still haven’t been reimbursed for the previous ones. Finance always says they don’t meet the regulations or that I’m missing the invoices.
Before he could say more, someone else’s voice startled him.
“You almost made me forget what the Supervisor and the others wanted to drink! It’s all your fault.”
“Listen carefully: The Supervisor wants an Americano, iced, no sugar. Brother Ou wants milk tea, room temperature, 70% sugar. The rest are seven lattes: two full sugar, one room temperature, one iced. The other five are full sugar, with three hot, one room temperature, and one less ice.”
Meng Xinghui had a poor memory. He grabbed a sticky note to jot everything down, but the person was speaking too fast. He scribbled frantically, his handwriting a messy scrawl that he could barely decipher.
The staff from the Film and Television Department were clearly trying to make things difficult for him. They could have written the order down, but they deliberately spoke at breakneck speed, hoping he’d get it wrong. Their eyes gleamed with smugness, and they rolled their eyes repeatedly whenever Meng Xinghui wasn’t looking.
“Anyway, you’d better go order now,” the person said, slowing down only to emphasize the threat. “Otherwise, the line will get too long. If the supervisor has to wait, he’ll be furious.”
Meng Xinghui nodded, his shoulders suddenly feeling heavy.
A wave of warmth spread from the hand resting on his shoulder. He turned his head to find Shen Qiu’s face inches away.
“You’re quite obedient,” Shen Qiu said softly. “But if I recall, the position I gave you was personal secretary. Even if I leave the Group, your role at Qingxiang remains personal secretary.”
Meng Xinghui froze, his ears flushing crimson as he realized he’d been so busy clocking in and working that he’d completely forgotten about Shen Qiu.
Shen Qiu then turned his gaze toward the staff from the Film and Television Department. “Since when did my personal secretary start taking orders from others?”
“You think just because this is a temporary situation, you can abandon your post and throw yourself at someone else?”
“Let me be clear: I am the President of Qingxiang. I have the authority to fire any one of you, whether you are a manager or a well-connected employee.”
The clatter of keyboards ceased in the open-plan office. Employees held their breath. In the private offices, phones buzzed with group chat notifications as people strained to listen.
President Shen is here! Poor Xiao Lin from the Film and Television Department. He ran right into President Shen while bullying Xiao Meng.
Some dared not even lift their heads, terrified that President Shen’s cold gaze would fall upon them. The memory of their own actions—dumping work on Meng Xinghui—made their hearts race with fear.
Seeing the situation, someone secretly messaged their manager to alert them of President Shen’s presence in the company.
The staff from the Film and Television Department, of course, knew President Shen. Their faces turned pale, and their words came out in a stammer. “President Shen, it’s just—it’s too cold today, that’s why we asked—no, we’re just so busy, that’s why I asked Xinghui to help buy water.”
“It’s fine if Meng Xinghui didn’t want to do it. I could have just ordered delivery.”
“You remember you can order delivery.”
The Film and Television Department staff member choked on his excuse, his words catching in his throat.
Shen Qiu withdrew the hand he’d used to hold Meng Xinghui back. His cold gaze never even glanced at the employee. “I want to see Gao Cheng immediately after the meeting,” he said, before turning and walking toward the President’s Office.
Meng Xinghui remained rooted to the spot, his mind a complete blank.
The employee from the Film and Television Department immediately scrambled to find Manager Gao.
Shen Qiu glanced back and saw Meng Xinghui still standing there, completely oblivious to the situation. “Meng Xinghui, come with me.”
Meng Xinghui’s brain finally processed the command, and he followed the man into the President’s Office.
The air in the office was stifling and thick with dust. A layer of grime coated the desk, so bad that even a second’s stay felt intolerable. Shen Qiu threw open the window to let in some fresh air.
Meng Xinghui grabbed Shen Qiu’s wrist, pulling him to a slightly cleaner spot. He produced a plastic chair from somewhere unseen. “Sit here and wait for me.”
“Where did you get that chair?” Shen Qiu asked. “The company would never purchase plastic chairs with backs like this.”
“Aunt Liu from the cleaning staff gave it to me,” Meng Xinghui explained. “She said it’s for resting when the work gets tiring.” He patted the backrest. “Hurry up and sit.”
Shen Qiu turned to get a mop and rag from the cleaning closet, carrying a bucket in his right hand.
Meng Xinghui started cleaning the office. When the mop reached him, he said, “Move.”
Shen Qiu, lying back with his hands on his stomach and eyes closed for a short rest, refused. “No.”
Meng Xinghui frowned. “How can you be like this? Get up, now.” He grabbed Shen Qiu’s hand and pulled him up with surprising force.
Shen Qiu stared in disbelief. So much strength… How was he described in the original novel as having a delicate body and being easily knocked over?
A damp rag was thrust into his hand. He didn’t need to ask who had shoved it there.
“Hurry up and wipe the windows and the desk.”
Shen Qiu didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but he still followed Meng Xinghui’s orders.
He never imagined that one day he, a president in his own right, would be personally cleaning, and ordered to do so by someone who only acted tough in private.
The President’s Office was now clean and tidy.
Meng Xinghui stood with his hands on his hips, triumphant like a minor official returning in victory. “So clean! But it’s too empty. When you bring your books over tomorrow and we set up some bookshelves, the office will finally look proper.”
Shen Qiu sat on the sofa, his arm draped over the backrest. “No need to bring the books. It’s fine just like this.”
After all, I won’t be staying long.